


The Dark House

by Debi_C



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Multi, Season/Series 08, the table.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-08
Updated: 2005-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debi_C/pseuds/Debi_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is being stalked by a mysterious figure from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark House

The house stood dark and lonely looking in the light of the half moon. Obviously no one was home, and hadn't been in some time. 

With a quiet tread, he climbed the front steps, fallen leaves swirling around his boots. The doormat was covered by them, hiding the welcome that was inscribed on it. He remembered that mat. It looked a little older than he recalled, but then so did he. 

He reached into his jeans pocket, feeling through the coins and collected dross. The key ring eluded him for a moment, then was brought out of its confinement. Fitting the door key into the latch hole, it caught half way in. The lock had evidently been changed. 

The shadowy figure left the porch and silently rounded the side of the house. He proceeded to the back, deftly avoiding the grasping fingers of the shrubbery. The dry grass crackled under his feet and tall weeds made shuffling noises as he made his way to the rear entrance. 

That door was also locked and apparently bolted from the inside. There was no interior light showing except from the barely visible smoke detector that was in its proper place above the clock's shadowed face. If he was very quiet, he could hear the measured tick of the clock and see its phosphorescent hands as they marked 11:25 on the dial. 

Continuing on to the back deck, and passing the stairs that led up to the observatory platform, the man mounted the step up, swung his long leg over the railing, and went directly to the sliding glass door. There he pulled a k-bar knife from a sheath secreted in his boot. Carefully, he inserted the heavy steel blade into the crevice by the latch and gently worked the honed point into the mechanism of the door. After a moment, a gentle snick advised him of his success. A slight push opened the door to his invasion. 

Glancing around furtively, he slid the door partially open and stepped through, carefully closing the door behind himself and re-fastening the lock. Now, he would wait for the house's occupant to return home at his leisure. His prey would not escape. 

Crossing into the kitchen, he opened the pantry door. On one of the lower shelves there were several bottles of wine lying properly on their side in a small wooden rack. They wore a coating of dust as if they had been forgotten, or perhaps were being saved for some special occasion. From their labels, the man could tell they were an expensive vintages, a luxury paid for by his victim's ego and good taste. The man was paid well for his work and he was now able to appreciate the finer things in life. The intruder smiled sardonically at the idea. From a penniless and disgraced intellectual to a highly paid and respected government employee; he'd come a long way, baby. 

Pulling one of the bottles from its nesting place and blowing the dust and cobwebs from the glass, he went unerringly to a utility drawer where he located an ebony handled corkscrew. He smiled at the carvings on the hard wood handle. It was yet another affectation that his target had acquired over the years. Expensive tastes, conspicuous consumption, and now fine utensils for mundane uses. Things had indeed changed. Pulling the cork from the bottle, he reached for a glass. Finding a stemmed crystal goblet in the cabinet, he poured the blood red liquid into it. He returned the corkscrew to its place in the drawer, pushed the cork back into the neck of the bottle, and put it in the refrigerator. He picked up the glass, then left the kitchen to go through the shadowed living room and into the darker den. 

By the continuing light of the half moon peeking in through the curtained window, he easily made his way around the room, memorizing the placement of the furniture. The piano was against the back wall under the window sill offering a view of the spacious back yard. The comfortably worn couch faced the fireplace. There was a bit of an emotional reaction when he noticed an addition that he wasn't expecting, a wooden table sitting next to the entrance in front of the plate glass window. The old oak piece was very recognizable by a putty-filled notch on its surface and a rounded corner. How had that come to be here of all places? 

On its surface sat several framed pictures. A cheap black plastic one was of the subject mounted on a dromedary. Another was in a standard military issue brown wooden frame. It was of a rather mismatched foursome: the man in question, a blonde woman, a large black man with an odd emblem on his forehead and a rather lean lanky character. The third in the center was of a lovely dark-haired woman who was smiling shyly at the camera. Behind the center picture facing the window was a tall, thick pillar candle made of beeswax. The wick showed that it had been burned, and in that, had been a beacon for someone to home in on. That it was still in place showed that the person had not arrived yet. Carrying his glass of wine he again moved into the darkened room. There he located a comfortable chair that was hidden in deep shadows and sat down to wait. 

Some time later, a car's headlights flashed through the curtained windows. As he listened, hidden by the shield of night, he could hear footsteps coming up the walkway. Voices carried through the thick wooden door. 

"Thanks, Mitchell. I appreciate the lift home." 

"No problem, Jackson." The other man's voice expressed his concern. "Are you sure you'll be all right here by yourself? I could come in and help you get settled." 

"No. No, I'm fine." There was a soft chuckle. "It's not like I haven't been hurt before." 

"Yeah, but that nurse said O'Neill would babysit you. I don't want to leave you in the lurch." 

"No, really, I'm good. Just help me get the groceries in and then I'm going to go to bed and try to get some rest." 

The man slid further back into the shadows of the den area. This was unexpected. He couldn't afford to be caught here. He heard the keys rattle in the lock, then a slight squeak as the heavy wooden door swung open. Quick steps led the way across the wooden floor and the sound of heavy thumping ensued as something hit the floor, followed by a sliding sound. His prey was injured. It would make it a lot easier once Mitchell left. 

A light came on in the living room that let a long golden bar infiltrate the dark room in which he was concealed. He pushed back farther into the shadows. Another light came on in the kitchen as the two new arrivals entered its confines. 

"I don't know, I think Carter would be pissed if anything happened to you . . . and God knows Teal'c would rip off my head and shit down my neck." 

Jackson chuckled at the last comment. "No, he'd . . . well, he wouldn't be happy, but he wouldn't do that." There was the sound of a chair sliding back across the floor. 

"He could." The young officer's voice filtered in from the kitchen. 

"Yes, yes he could, but he won't," Daniel's voice reassured his guest. "Teal'c is much more civilized than that." 

"Oh, he'd just zat me three times and then wonder out loud where I went too." The other man snorted. "He's one scary dude." There was a pause. "Want me to heat up some soup or make you a sandwich?" 

Daniel laughed softly. "Yes, he is." There was a pause. "Well, if you don't mind." 

"Nah, stay there. Not a problem. Sit down and get off those crutches." He heard the sounds of dishes rattling and the refrigerator door opening and closing. "Say, do you think this wine is still good?" 

"Wine? What wine?" 

"This wine. It was open here in the fridge." 

"There is?" The voice sounded doubtful. 

"Yeah, here." There was the sound of liquid being poured into some glasses. "Just one for you though, to help you sleep." 

"Yes, please." 

Stupid! Not with pain meds. They should know better than that. 

There were the sounds of utensils clanking and food being prepared. Then some more conversation as a quick meal was prepared and consumed. Finally, Mitchell was making goodbye sounds. 

"You sure you'll be okay by yourself?" 

"Mitchell, I'm forty years old, for crying out loud. I'll be fine. Now, go home so I can go to bed." 

"Well, if you say so. Ya know, I could stay here for the night." Was there longing in the offer, or merely kindness?

"Good night, Mitchell." 

Footsteps sounded as the two men left the kitchen area. Mitchell's were headed toward the door. "You sure? " 

"I'm fine. Go home and get some sleep." 

"Okay. I'll call you in the morning to see how you're doing." 

"Thanks Mom." 

"Hey! It's my job. I'm your C.O." 

"Yeah, yeah. That's what the last one said too. At least Sam is a woman." 

"What about O'Neill?" 

"Jack? Hah! He was an overprotective pain in my ass." 

"From what I've heard, he needed to be." 

"Good night, Mitchell." 

"Night Jackson. Call me or Carter if you need anything." 

He heard the door as it closed at last and the click of the deadbolt being locked from the inside. The lights in the living room went out and then he heard the halting steps as his prey limped his way up the staircase to the bedroom. The man waited until his victim was up the stairs before he came out of the dark room. 

He glanced over at the familiar table with the framed pictures on it once again. The faces still looked on expectantly, the candle encouraged his crime. It was time to act. 

Stealthily he mounted the stairs one at a time, then paused outside the lit bedroom waiting and listening. He could follow the other man's movements by the sounds. There was a thud as a shoe hit the floor and a rasp of cloth on skin as clothing followed. Limping steps traveled across the floor, then the sound of a flushed toilet. Finally, the creak of the bed springs, the rustle of the covers, and a soft sigh sounded the end of what had obviously been a long and tiring day. 

After a short wait, he heard the soft breaths even out as sleep claimed his prey. Now it was time to move. He approached the bed and looked down at the man who lay there. It's now quite obvious that Daniel Jackson was suffering. The leg wrappings and the crutches indicated the extent of his injury. There were dark smudges under the man's eyes and hectic pink circles on the high cheekbones. Some crow's feet gathered at the temples and some extra lines were drawn across the high brow and around the mouth. He appeared to have lost some weight, but that could be due to the grey moonlight that filtered through the venetian blinds. 

Standing there by the large bed, the man flexes his hands, thinking about what he is going to do. Should he go quick and sure, or slow and carefully? Will the other man fight him or will he submit without a struggle? Will the hot temper flash at him or will the icy intellect freeze him? 

Then the soft voice penetrated all his musings. "I was hoping it was you." 

"You knew?" 

"Not at first. Not until Mitchell found the wine in the refrigerator, and even then I wasn't sure." 

"He nearly died tonight. Do you think he knew that?" 

"No, I'm sure he didn't. Why do you say that?" 

"I could have been a burglar. I could have been NID. Hell, I could have been part of The Trust. I could have killed you both." A frown settled on his features. "He's inept." 

"No. He's a pilot, he's not like that." 

The man nodded. "He not properly trained in stealth or covert skills. He doesn't recognize danger to himself or his people." 

Daniel swallowed. "He's never had to kill like that before." 

"Is this his fault?" He indicated the injuries and the exhaustion with a nod of his head. 

"No. It's mine. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. How did you know?" 

"I have my sources." He looked down at the man on the bed. "And me? Am I at the wrong place at the wrong time?" 

"No. Your timing is perfect." The smile was warm, inviting and completely honest. "And you're certainly at the right place." 

He sat down on the bed. "You're hurting." 

Jackson nodded. "I'm tired, I'm sore, and I'm lonely." 

"Not anymore, Danny. Not tonight." 

"I've missed you, Jack. Come to bed."


End file.
